Still
by Krima
Summary: Winter over Westeros. This follows some well loved characters into the cold and beyond, exploring believes and faith and fate.
1. Chapter 1

_As we all know, everything of this belongs to the marvelous Mr. Martin. _

Her wedding approached sooner than she had expected. While not being fully present, watching her existence like a puppet from the outside, she had suppressed the impact of the upcoming date. She had found certain stability in the current circumstances that were her life. It felt numbed, distanced, partially dispensed; but she feared no harm like she had before. Unlike when she had lived in the city, under the constant threat of being decapitated, or being beaten up to blooding bruises, or being humiliated.

While she did not feel anything like happiness, she did not feel fear either. She despised his kisses and touches, but they were no harm to her body; she endured them and while sometimes shadowing her dreams, there were no marks to look upon in the morning.

She was well treated, respected, and basically left alone.

She knew about her father's plans to marry her, had agreed, had played along, had sung her tune in the big act he had orchestrated. And here she was, getting ready to be traded off, to a man she did not despise, but not appreciate, for a claim that was solid, but fragile. Pictures in her head faded away, the only living memory for her was the omnipresent snow. White and pure and cold, beautiful in detail and only lasting for a second on her outstretched hand before it melted. Its innocent seeming beauty could kill a man in his sleep, while covering him with the softest death.

When the woman, who had brought up her soon-to-be husband, had announced she would be visiting Gulltown, Alayne had spoken up and politely asked to join the trip, for she had not seen a city in a long time. Nothing specifically lingered on her mind to do there, maybe she just wanted to leave the castle in the clouds one last time as a maiden…

Her father had smiled and resisted, but in the end agreed and decided to accompany them. He would never leave her alone.

She had enjoyed the little trip, eating at an inn, picking textiles, seeing smallfolk trading, speaking, laughing. She did not remember the last time she had honestly laughed.

Her father's stepson had not joined them, his health was too fragile, and she did not see how he would live till manhood. When they passed a septry from which about a dozen septas emerged, a thought crossed her mind, short, but it amused her. She claimed to have been brought up in a motherhouse, and she had never seen one with her own eyes.

She begged her companions to stop and allow her to visit the motherhouse's sept, for praying a last goodbye to her life as a maiden in the house of gods, that she had been brought up in.

Her father showed a strained grim, while the woman petted her hand and nodded understandingly.

He insisted on accompanying her, but he was stopped by a warrior of the faith guarding the entrance of the motherhouse. Entrance was only allowed for women. Her father disputed, while the sentinel said his daughter would be guarded by the seven inside the house, there could be no place safer for her.

The woman finally pressed him to let her go and discuss some of the further details of utter importance with him, while they were waiting for her.

When she was in the sept, among septas praising the gods, candles shining in front of the altars, she prayed.

She prayed for the souls of those she had lost, for those that walked no longer on this earth. She prayed for mercy, and some septas sung the mother's hymn, which pierced her heart. She prayed for herself, for her own life, to find a purpose in it, a purpose, that was beyond being a figure in a game that got moved strategically.

That was the moment, when she saw the silent sisters entering the sept.


	2. Chapter 2

He shoveled dirt. He did nothing but shoveling earth, and it felt good. It numbed his mind and body. There were still not enough graves. Not to bury his grief and regret. Not to bury the ones he had killed. And so he shoveled dirt until his mind and body were exhausted and he would be able to sleep.

A scandal of enormous size rolled over the Vale of Arryn. The Lord Protector, who had tried to marry his bastard born daughter to Harrold Hardyng, was stripped of his powers by the Lords Royce and Redfort, slapped in the face by the shamed groom.

His bastard born daughter had refused to marry, and joined the faith of the seven. There was no way to hide it from her betrothed's since his ward was witness when she had refused to leave the motherhouse. He had tried to corrupt the septas to bring her to him, but their faith was steady, and they told him to be thankful to have such a devoted child. The father then had tried to retain his daughter with force, attacking the house declared to serve the worship of the gods, his knights battling the warriors of the faith.

His daughter was nowhere to be found, the motherhouse lay in ashes and Petyr Baelish had to fear the wrath of the Warrior's sons.

It was the time of war and winter, a time for death.


	3. Chapter 3

Days on the isle withered; the air was cold and shortly after the ground turned to stone. The water froze last, being a sea of sharp sheets of ice before the snow fell and covered everything. The brothers gathered with bedrolls in the hall, the walls stacked with wood, keeping the fires alive day and night. Some animals were among them, pigs, goats some chickens and a nasty yellow cat. They had slaughtered the cow and even the big horse they had in their stables, there was no way to keep and feed those for a long time. It stank everywhere, but in the sept, where their breaths filled the icy air with steam that grew crystals on the windows and covered the seven pointed star at the top of the room.

They cleared some snow to a nearby hut each day, where they stored more wood, but some days the snow storms were too harsh to leave for just one step. They kept their last harvested vegetables, turnips, cabbage and potatoes cold, but there came the day when everything was eaten, and they went for beans and pickles. The brothers passed the only Cyvasse game that belonged to Elder Brother. Sometimes all one heard for hours, were farts.

Occasionally he would wonder how animals in wilderness would survive this, how they would overcome the cold. He knew about hibernation, but how much fat could they have stored on their bodies, would there be anything left, if this winter ever ended?

The days found a structure on their own, praying in the morning, preparing meals, shipping snow, re-stocking the wood inside, listening to Elder Brother's lecture on the seven pointed star; snow, meals, and prayers. He thought even while being awake, they had dived into hibernation by themselves…

His dreams would be vivid, filled with bright yellow and green fires, red rivers and blue eyes.

In some dreams a young girl would wait for him and all he could do would be sinking to his knees and crying in her lap, feeling so small, like his big body was only a giant shell.


	4. Chapter 4

She had ruined everything. He had weaved the perfect plan, their future shining in brightest colours. Then she had openly declared against him, had shamed him in front of everybody, again. They could have ruled over the Vale, and Winterfell, and Harrenhal by rights, and the Riverlands as well and she had ruined it. Something in him had snapped, and all he wanted was to smash her, but instead he was on a ship, clenching his hands in the wooden railing while retching into the dark foaming water underneath.

She never thought that she could do it, that she would just leave him, but she did. Pieces had fallen in place when she stood up to ask the head septa how to join the silent sisters.

Now here she was, dressed in brown, a shawl hanging around her throat. She felt the rough fabric, the heaviness of the textile, the weight of her utensils hanging on her belt. She listened and laughed innerly. There would never be more lies she had to speak, no more false tales, no more, never.

She remembered her father banging the door of the sept, screaming for her to get out, calling her names, but words did not touch her anymore for quite a while by then.

And Alayne Stone swore an oath to become a silent sister.


	5. Chapter 5

_If you do not deal well with imagery of dead people, especially infants, I recommend not reading the paragraph marked in square brackets._

There would be days so cold that taking a piss was painful. Elder Brother made everybody drink teas and chew on bittersweet berries to keep most of them healthy. Two died anyway. They did not do so silently, but with a lot of coughing and wheezing, that echoed in his ears. There was no way to bury them in the graveyard, for it was covered in chest high snow and frozen below, so they kept them in a wooden box outside. Within days it was crusted with layers of white, transformed into a monument. The brothers continued forming a seven pointed star on top, slowly turning into blue ice.

He was whittling wood to pass the hours, feeding shavings and failed figures to the flames. He watched his brothers play. He saw one teaching how to sew, but only tried once, for his hands were too coarse for the tiny needle.

[At first she was disgusted and shocked, but she lost the shyness after a while. It was a good thing they did, caring for the dead, stripping them, washing them, clothing them. Their work made relatives see their loved ones a last time in a good condition, their actions guided the guarded way to the afterlife. People, whose bodies where deformed and haggard from long and cruel sickness. Families who lost their elderly and young ones in the same night of thorough frost. Mothers, who had died giving birth, their bodies ripped open, beds covered in dried blood, some with a dead babe stuck inside them. Sometimes men that were found outside, frozen by a snow storm, discovered on a day of sudden calmness. And seldom, an elder person, that had peacefully gone to bed, with no sickness or pain, and never awoken again.]

One time there had been a fire in a warehouse, and the dead's burned faces had reminded her of somebody she knew.

Her fingers didn't mind the work, and she had a talent for stitches. A peaceful cloud surrounded the sisterhood like a cocoon; it comforted her not to speak. She wore the silence like a gown floating around her.

The world seemed calm; its noises were numbed by snow.


	6. Chapter 6

The warmth crept back upon Westeros after more than two years had passed. He felt it in his arms when the shovel got heavy. Snow melted slowly but coldness stayed, coming from the iced ground and the frozen water around the isle. They found people perished on the surface. One was enclosed by ice, the head slightly turned so nothing could be seen but black hair.

Finally, the water had flown again, and the flood brought limbs and bloated body parts and drowned mounts. He dug so often in the still solid soil that new blisters erupted in his calloused hands.

A beam of sunlight broke the grey sky and the sparkling field blinded his eyes. In his head he heard Elder Brother's voice about how white contained all colours.

When snows had begun to melt, it was not only grass rising from it, but also Lords and their armies. A silver-white haired prince had landed and caused more and more fights, leaving a trail of demolished lives on his way.

The sisterhood had left the Vale of Arryn and there had been brutal deaths. People who had starved. Men whose guts they had to sew back into the body. They arranged torn limbs under gowns and tried to cover missing scull parts with leftover hair. Some were just so deformed; all they could do was covering the face with clean linen, and set the stone-eyes on it, so that they would see in the next world.

Tales about the butcher of Saltpans reached them. She thought that anybody could have worn a hound shaped helmet.


	7. Chapter 7

Elder Brother spoke to them one night, offering each one a choice. They could stay on the isle and continue to live the lives they knew. Or they could join him, who had decided to leave to bring comfort, help and support to the people, as far as it was in his power, which hopefully the seven would make strong. The lands were devastated, people starving, children dying and everybody should be reminded that a better future waited for them. If he meant for the dead or living, the man with the sore hands wondered.

Two days later, the gravedigger stumbled out of the house that had been his home for years. He wore thick layers of coats, his face was wrapped in shawls, and he leaned on the crutch he needed to take some of the weight off his limp leg during long walks.

The brothers were offered shelter and food, whenever and wherever there was some to share. One might think that after losing loved-ones, livestock and lands' harvest people would be cruel, bitter and despaired, holding anger against the gods. Some did, but most were thankful for their survival, happy to have lived through the harsh encounter with nature's power, praising the seven in adoration.


	8. Chapter 8

Lord Baelish waited. His name was well-known but he had never before met the head of the Iron Bank of Braavos. They shook hands before they sat down to talk.

"And what would you expect from our institute in exchange for the proof of this information?" he was asked in the end.

"Enough to pay a faceless man."


	9. Chapter 9

The fisher had cried so hard, it made him feel helpless. His wife and daughters had perished in the winter, and Elder Brother just finished sprinkling blessed water over the son's grave. The boy had fallen off the roof, when he tried to repair the damage brought by frost. First they had hoped, but his spine was smashed and he faded away soon. He was reminded of another boy that had survived a fall, just to be killed shortly after in a different manner.

The man sobbed and sunk to his knees, and Elder Brother had kneeled with him, holding his shaking body.

One night they were lying in a barn, everybody sleeping deeply but the digger, when a man and a wench stumbled into the darkness. She lifted her skirts for him, and he pressed her against the wall, holding one of her legs, steadying her body with his. She hugged his shoulders, her hands holding his head, pressing his lips against hers.

The digger closed his eyes, but could still hear their noises.

Instead of riding by, the group had hit one brother bloody and unconscious with a blade, demanding them to hand over anything of value they might own. Elder Brother was beside his laying companion and declared, there was nothing to loot from them other than prayers.

The bastard had laughed and climbed of his horse, walking slowly towards Elder Brother. "That's really all you have old man?" he asked and when his question was denied, he hacked with his axe on the edge between throat and shoulder. The ugliest of noises told that he had cracked bone, smashed the surface and cut a gash from which a gurgling sound emerged.

His instincts were far from well trained, but still well developed, so he knew his leg wouldn't make it to a quick attack. He stopped until the bastard turned, coming towards him, suspecting him in frozen shock. But when he came close enough, he tackled him to the ground, breaking his neck in his arm with what felt like no force at all.

The other cowards fled immediately.

Elder Brother still lay gargling on the ground, blood spilling from the cut, but calm. He knew that nothing could be done for him. The big man kneeled next to him and held his head in his arms, pressing his giant hand over the open throat. The wise man had a peaceful expression on his face, making the movements for a star over his heaving chest. He sighed.

His life spilled slowly, it ran out of his veins and soaked the robes and ground.

He took the oils and herbs, and the chain with the star, before he buried him. He buried the brother who had not awoken next to him. He kneeled in front of the fresh hills and paid his respects, but he did not pray. When he turned to leave, he saw the bastard who had slain his friends and he snarled.

He would have left him just like this, but he could not do it, not anymore. He settled to dig a hole, quick and tiny, and he buried him with bend knees.


	10. Chapter 10

Her cloak was heavy from the rain that had soaked it, but she didn't mind neither the weight nor chill. What she needed was some cold fresh air in her lungs.

It was not her work itself that made her feel nauseous, but what brought her that work. The brutality of mankind against each other sickened her soul. Beheaded children, raped women, slaughtered men, she had seen them all. Everyone's misfortune had been to be at the wrong place at the wrong time; being born and raised and drawn into battles that were not about them.

Nobody had held a personal hate against any of the murdered, yet they had been killed anyway. The lived in the village that was passed by blood-thirsty men, had the obligation to fight for one Lord or another, had their throats cut after having been violated, just because they were women.

She remembered a time when she had considered battles romantic and honorable. How naïve she had been. All men are killers, she thought bitterly.


	11. Chapter 11

Just when he had attempted to pass by the shackle next to the line where the woods ended, the door flew open and a girl ran after him… "Brother, please, brother, come in. Help us." Her face was red when she reached him. "My mother fears she might die. The babe." The gravedigger stiffed, but turned to come with her. A baby would only need a small grave.

They reached the cabin and heard muffled cries. A woman held a small package to her chest and sobbed, a young boy sitting by her feet. "Please brother, can you bless her? We think she might die", they begged him. He searched in his pockets for the scented oils, and put a drop of each on the infant's forehead. It burned from fever. He cleared his throat with a bursting sound. "I bless you in the name of the seven. May their light shine upon you on all days and guide you through dark nights."

He handed some herbs to the girl, to make a tea for the babe. They offered him to eat with them, and the broth tasted like boiled branches. He noticed the sharp features of their starved faces, and they noticed the burns on his, but only the little boy starred.

Whispered words and tiny wheezing sounds woke him in the night. "Don't die my sweet girl. Stay with me, don't fly away little bird." His chest tightened. The woman looked at him with wetness on her cheeks "She can hardly breathe."

He took the tiny babe and looked at her in the scarce glow of the almost extinct fire. The skin felt cooler, but something made her struggle to get air. Six dark circled, desperately hoping eyes lay upon him while he lowered his head. The boy gasped when his mouth was on the tiny nose, sucking the bad stuff out of the baby's head and spitting it on the ember.

Everyone heard her loud cry, saw how she took a deep breath, kicked her legs, and started laughing.

Before he left, they asked him to baptize the little girl. They had begun to call her Elli, but begged him to choose a second name for her. "Name her Sansa", he said.


	12. Chapter 12

The forces of the remaining Targaryens clashed in the Riverlands. She would never understand how the last living relatives came to battle each other. All she understood of it was that it brought more death upon people. Horrible deaths, since one had dragons, which brought the wrath of fire. Over time she had gotten used to different smells, to the sweet stink of rotten wounds, the metallic must of blood, excrements, but the charred scent of fire touched people always made her stomach twist.

Too many lay on plains and fields to treat them with the proper respects. She carried a stick of pressed coal with her, to draw a quick eye on their eyelids. All the sisters did was to pray for their souls and haul them onto carts, bringing them to the giant gaping holes in the ground. Some days they could at least place them next to each other with folded hands, some days they just filled the hole.

They were surrounded not only by corpses, but also by those that were still dying, screaming in agony of unbearable pain. Some remaining soldiers would explore the battlefield, sometimes looking for a certain comrade, more often looking for better armor.

The words of her prayers faded in her head, when she heard men cry and beg for the gift of mercy. She closed her eyes, but her head seemed to spin, and she breathed heavily. Was this the Mother's mercy, a quick death, was that what she gave to her devoted children?

She held one man's hand, and he kept babbling words that did not make sense. His skull had a crack; she could see it pulsating under the hair, blood covering half his face already dried, but more came running down his head, fresh red trails on a darkened surface.

She didn't know why the gods wouldn't let him die, for there was no way for him to survive. She saw the dagger just out of reach, lying on the ground and she grabbed it. Tears streamed down her face, while she stroked his unbloody cheek. His eyes were open, but he did not see her.


	13. Chapter 13

His leg bothered him. He paused for a moment, straightened his back and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He was far from being done covering the pile of corpses with earth.

Another cart came towards him. It was pulled by a mule and only one small man lay on it. A squire he thought and noticed the silent sister walking by the cart. Why did she only bring one?

The mule stopped, and he saw short legs, twisted in an abominable angle. The armor was smashed, but had once been exquisite. This was no squire, this was a noble.

He held his breath while he moved closer to examine Tyrion Lannister.

His face was even uglier then he remembered. It seemed puffed and swollen, and red. Smeared with crud and blood, there was no nose and that was no fresh wound.

The fucking Imp had died among dragons he thought. Which one did he fight for? It really did not matter.

He rose up again, and noticed that she held his hand.

And their eyes met.

_Here you go dear readers, enjoy the cliffhanger._

_Since I consider this the end of act I, I would kindly ask for your opinion. Let me know what you think of storyline, structure, characters, language etc. Maybe you want to take a guess where this is going? Come ladies, don't be shy; data tells me there are about 300 of you, who read up to this point. Data tells me you have two favourite chapters, and that you like chocolate :-)_


	14. Chapter 14

Their eyes locked.

Those eyes seemed utterly familiar. Their colour, their shape, but the look they gave him was different.

Something punched him in the stomach. All air left his lungs. He forgot to breathe.

A thousand thoughts swirled through his mind and his head felt completely empty.

Was that hope? Could it be her? Did he hallucinate once more?

Her lower face was covered by the traditional sister's habit's shawl, and he urged to see her, to know for sure he was mocked by his mind.

His mouth was dry, his head filled with the thudding sound of rushing blood.

He needed to know for sure, while he feared to move, anxious to destroy this perfect imagination.

He was afraid to touch her, for he thought she might disappear.

Were there gods? Did they play tricks on him?

He needed to know, he needed to see how his heart and mind had wronged him.

He would lose his peace if he did not know for sure that it was indeed not her.

His hand began to move, but it seemed not to be him who controlled it.

When it was just an inch from her cheek her hand touched his.

And then he knew.


	15. Chapter 15

His face was concealed by a hood, but she didn't need to see his face to know who stood before her.

He was the biggest man she ever was around, and the sensation of the presence of his stature was immediately familiar.

Her heart was beating wildly, for she dared not to believe what her mind told her.

She felt her skin touch his, felt the bones under her fingertips, her thumb rubbing against the weals in his palm.

Her fingers stroke his knuckles, sensing the rough skin, cherishing the tender surface until she trusted her wits and a smile spread across her face.

Wind blew and made leaves and grass swish, interrupting their instant of eternity.

"Seven bloody hells", he whispered, "you are here." he paused. "Why?"

Yes I am and so are you, she thought. I wanted to help and bring comfort. I wanted to escape the man who called himself my father. I wanted to praise the gods and met their failure.

She loosened their hands and pointed at the half buried dead men. His eyes followed her fingers.

In his head was Elder Brother's voice. The dead remind us that we live, he said. Their memories make us sad or happy, bring light or shadow to our existence. Our quest is to act better, by what we learned from them, because we are alive and we can.

He hadn't felt so alive in a very long time.


	16. Chapter 16

Nobles had died on the fields, sometimes comrades or relatives looked for them and pulled them out the piles of corpses.

Nobody seemed to search for Tyrion Lannister.

From all the people in Westeros, it was her who had found the Imp, he thought. To think of the dwarf and the girl twisted his stomach. For all he knew she was his wife. She turned towards him and there was sorrow in her eyes. He wondered if it was for the dead or the dwarf or herself. She never should have been in a place like this.

"Come", he said, "we will bring him somewhere else."

They made the mule move, and turned around. He directed the animal and she walked silently besides the cart. On the other end of the endless seeming field of recently dug ground there were some tents.

His nose cringed from the familiar smell of boiled wine poured in open flesh. The gagged cries of those that were still conscious filled the air, but others were beyond the point of moaning and whimpering, and he knew he would soon meet them again.

She seemed utterly unimpressed with the proceedings in that tent, the stinks, the cries, the messy bloody bodies.

They waited for the maester of an extinguished keep who was in charge, and without a glance towards them he rushed for the limb body they brought. "This one died on the way", he mumbled disinterestedly. It took him a moment to realize who lay before him, he had already turned his back on the corpse, when he swirled around and clutched dead hands.

"This is Tyrion of House Lannister" he exclaimed. And Sandor knew their business was done.

When they walked back, he gestured for her to sit on the cart, but she shook her head and walked next to him. She noticed his slight limping.


	17. Chapter 17

The camp was filled with sisters and some septons, brothers and septas. He had been here for days. Before he met her all sisters looked the same to him, cloaked in brown with black shawls wrapped around their faces. Now he could recognize her between all of them. She was taller than most and had a dignified posture. When they were handed bowls of turnip stew he pried at her to see how she pulled down the shawl and exposed her face to eat. A soft smile was on her lips while a septon praised the gods for nourishing them.

Before the night, when servants of the gods came together and prayed, she stood among the other sisters, and his eyes rested on her. He heard the words but he did not listen.

She felt his gaze upon her. She fought the urge to turn and look at him, to let her eyes meet his. She had not attracted attention for quite some time by now, and she liked to be one of the flock. Being part of the sisterhood gave her a purpose, solitude and security at once. She was one of them, but she could be by herself, undisturbed, unbothered, uninterrupted.

A memory of old time, of a forgotten life wavered through her mind. I could keep you safe, it said and it gave her gooseflesh. Or was that the slight gust of wind?

The prayers ended, and she turned and there he was, right behind her. "Can we walk a bit?" he asked so quietly that only she would hear. She nodded.

They strolled further into the woods, the crisp sounds of breaking twigs and crackling leaves under their feet that sunk into wet moss. Spring claimed the ground, and lush green spots were about to unite and form a thick green carpet.

He wondered if she chose the faith to flee the Imp. He wondered where she had been. The things he wanted to tell her boiled inside him, but he was afraid to spoil the sweet fresh air and her ears with his rumbles. Certain things he had to tell, but maybe not tonight, maybe he could just walk with her in the woods, unspoiled by the shadows of past times.

Not only did she see and hear him, she mostly sensed him, filling so much space next to her. Her nose registered the smells of the woods and also his. It reminded her of a cloak so long ago. He told the truth but you did resist to listen, you were a summer child, she thought. She thought of the gods, who had taken innocent lives in so many cruel ways that she had witnessed…yet this man was alive and right beside her.

The girl believed in knights and fairytales, and now she believed in gods, while those are the biggest fairytale of all of them he thought. Why would she hide in one illusion from the other? He pulled back branches, so they would not snap at her after he passed, he was prepared to hold her arm would she trip, but there was no need, for she walked swift and firmly on uneven grounds.

She lowered her shawl and took a breath, tasting the earthy wet perfume of nature. He observed her face and it had changed. She was pretty, but a hint of melancholia lay on it where there had been first naïve excitement and later well-behaved lies. He saw the edge of rage in her eyes, the pain and anger. Where have you been girl, he thought and almost said it. But she stepped closer and his heart stopped when her hands reached for his hood and shawl.

She was gentle but not shy, pulled down the scarf below his chin and pushed the hood back in his neck. He felt air on his skin, but stronger he felt her eyes upon it. She looked him over for so long he wondered what she saw. He watched her eyes inspect his features, both sides and his memories rushed. Take a look, girl, look at me, he heard himself say, no slur or did he yell?

His face has changed she thought when she had exposed it to the setting sun. She looked for everything she did so well remember, every shade of scarred flesh, every line in his face, yet she did not find the difference. She noticed how his eyes traced hers but she searched on, for the distinction that she could not name. Maybe I recall it wrong, she told herself and knew it was untrue.

She receded, for she realized he might take it as starring. A faint uncertain smile lay on his halved lips and it confused her even more "Would you…may I..?" he harrumphed whole-heartedly and she shrug convinced the whole wide woods would hear his booming voice. She looked up and knew the end of his question, so she loosened the cloth and veil that were wrapped around her head.

A thick red braid fell over her shoulder, and it seemed darker, redder, than he had remembered. She seemed to glow and while she looked at him with a friendly face, there was something in her expression which he had never seen before, or likely it had not existed.

They stood silent for a moment until he dropped his eyes and she fastened her habit hood, what was not an easily done matter.

They did not speak when they returned but before they parted she stroked his arm.

He meant to watch the sisters' tent from the small canvas he slept under. If he had had a sword, he might have considered it a watch, but his sword went missing long ago.

He slept as deep and sound, as he had not done in years and so did she.


	18. Chapter 18

Winds had turned, so when the forces were clashing against each other again, faraway waves of low rumbling noise rolled over them repeatedly.

He remembered fighting so very well, the melting rush of vision, supervision and vicious sounds, some scenes in every nuance and detail, slower moving then time itself when he caught a wound, and his senses were flushed with recognition of a stroke, a deep cut, an arrowhead or a stab. It was not pain, not yet, he would just feel the impact as a token that he was indeed alive. The one who wounded him would not be soon.

Sometime he fought impressively good swordsmen, but in the end he always won, for his strength and ferociousness and that he did not fear to die. Very seldom, there was one, who found a way to cope with him, and then all that mattered was pure luck. Of those fights he remembered every step and stab, every breath he took, every stroke he placed.

Especially that one against that sword, that bloody burning sword.

His eyes watched her, while she was praying with septas, who sung a hymn to give strength to the warriors.

Bugger my arse he thought, you pray for strength and mercy, so you can bury them in the end. What do you earn from this, what do the gods earn?

Maybe it gives her inner peace he wondered, like Elder Brother used to tell him he might find in faith. The Seven can guide us and help us to cope with what befalls us he heard his voice say.

That day fields were filled with fewer corpses then before, so the sisters had time to give each one a respective prayer and partially perform the required rites. He watched them like he witnessed it for the first time. He followed her with his eyes when she went to fetch more fallen men. Absentmindedly he did his work, wondering how she would react when he told her about that sister of hers tonight. Raindrops hit him with surprise.

The sisters fled the spring storm, rushing away from the downpour. He welcomed the refreshment on his sweating skin but cursed because he had lost track of her. Then he felt her touch on his upper arm. Rain was on her face when he turned to look and she took his hand and pulled him away from his unfinished work.

He could not run, but he was able to make a decent speed for her to hurry with gathered skirts. They were among the last to arrive. The sisters' tent was filled with steaming people, smelling from wet wool and soaked humans. He kept his cloak on, for there was no fire to dry it; but hers seemed completely soaked so she took it off.

He did see her slender frame in the rough brown dress. She had grown, she was a woman now he thought and that she had never looked as pretty in one of the gowns at court. A woman wed to the Imp, his mind reminded him bitterly. He took a piss and saw his canvas flattering in the storm, his bedroll soaked. He wrapped them up and returned to the bigger tent, like others had before him.

They passed and shared hard cheese, raw roots and some nuts while the thunder thrashed upon them. Some were so loud that everybody shrugged and some women shrieked, but he eyed her and she was not scared. She sat calmly, covered in a dry blanket without the shawl and veil, wisps of hair loosed from her braid.

He was not the only man sharing the women's tent that night. They were squeezed together on both sides, smelling like a pack of wet dogs he thought to himself. They re-arranged, so all people would fit in. When she noticed he had nothing to sleep on, she offered him her wet cloak. Instead of putting it on the floor he folded it to use it for his head. It was still damp and smelled of wet sheep, but he could smell her scent, and he inhaled it with deep breaths. When he stretched just a little bit he could see her from his spot. Sleep didn't stay with him, for the booming thunder continued deep into the night. He was always sure she was still there, for he would wake up whenever anybody moved beyond a turn.

When dawn came he heard water dripping off leaves, knowing the lands would be covered in fog. A faint yellow-orange light filled the crowded tent, and he looked for her and was surprised that he saw her lying wide awake. A bird began to sing and she smiled at him and he felt the sun breaking through the clouds.

I will die with this moment in my heart he thought and without thinking about it, he smiled as well.


	19. Chapter 19

When he went back to the field, corpses were floating in the mud filled hole he hadn't finished the day before. He tried to cover them with what was left of the pile of earth, but all good it did was sprinkling him in dirty brown. He dropped the last dead men in and shoveled as much on it as possible, hoping that they would at least be covered when the ground dried. The day brought no new dead.

To tell her about her sister that night was his adamant intention, but how he did not know.

She thought of him while it was her turn to attend the duties of the day. She fetched buckets of water for the barrel, cleaned their tent and helped chopping for a broth. His small canvas stood near the sisterhood's tent. She guessed it was enough if a night was not bitterly wet or cold, but she doubted he would fit in it without his feet being exposed.

The gods' servants should not sleep on naked ground exposed to storms; no-one should she thought. Does he serve the gods these days? He used to mock them filled with bitterness. He used to mock you and scared you often with those angry eyes… Something boiled in her when she picked on memories of that lost time … but he had not stopped them and … sounds were in her ears, of strokes and cries and pleas and laughter. Her pulse rushed and her breath shortened. Her cheeks burned in shame and pain, she feared her head might burst.

She plunged her head in the water bucket, feeling the cooling liquid filling her ears and nostrils. Cherishing the high pitched sound that filled everything and erased every other noise. She wished the water could cleanse her mind and memories; it tasted soft and fresh on her tongue.

When she emerged her shawl and veil were soaked and clung heavily on her. She felt it dripping down the fabric of her dress. She took the bucket and turned back to re-fill it.

His eyes are different now she realized, less anger but more pain.

It was a spring day and warm sun lay on her.


	20. Chapter 20

They walked among the greening woods, silently next to one another. He meant to tell her, was just unsure how, since for once he wanted to present the truth gently. They passed an almost dried puddle, full of sticky mud. She crouched on the mossy floor and began drawing with her finger in the mud and he cowered next to her, irritated and curious. She was writing letters and slowly they formed words. LESS ANGER he read, scratching his head unconsciously, she evened the surface with her hand and wrote IN, next she spelled YOUR EYES. He stared at her with his mouth slightly open.

"Little bird", he said "anger hasn't left me. It is still here. If it is called, it comes, and there is a lot of it. " Blount, Moore, Greenfield, Trant, and Oakheart. Joffrey and the Imp, he saw their faces spinning in his head. "They deserve to die for what they did to you. Those bloody knights. That little fucker of a king. I want to make them die again and again and again" …and Gregor, he thought…

She looked him straight in the face, almost emotionless it seemed to him, while he was fighting the urge to do something bad, to get a reaction from her to what he had said.

Her mind was flushed with images she tried to avoid at all costs. The feeling of fists and swords crushing on skin. The burning of a hand slapping a cheek, the twisted pain it caused in the neck. The sensation of air and eyes on her skin. She shivered. I want to watch them die she thought, again and again and again and again.

And before her eyes was the blond king with green eyes and blood red stripes on his throat, torn by his own fingernails. She heard them all, the crying and gasping and screaming and she heard the bells ringing and hysterical laughter welled up inside her, but her throat seemed strangled, she could neither laugh nor scream. He's dead, she thought, he died before your eyes.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "They beat you and I didn't shield you. They stripped you and I didn't stop them. They tried to break you." There was a long silence. Leaves rushed, birds whistled and something picked noisily on wood. He didn't lift his eyes to meet hers. "Forgive me" he said in a low voice, avoiding her face. She took his hand in both her hands. One was crusted in dried mud, drizzling bits of sand on his skin. She took his hand in hers and held it tight. "Forgive me" he said again, a little louder and looked in her eyes.

She starred at him. Her chest heaved quickly and there was a struggle deep inside her. He felt her fingernails digging in his skin.

Then she loosened her grip, turned around and walked away.


	21. Chapter 21

He had stayed in the woods for hours, staring at her words in mud. He waited to be angry, but he was irritated. A soft rain shower fell on him and transformed her words back in a puddle. He stuck his hand in the dirt and squeezed it. I'm stirring the bottom of the barrel he thought, she tried to forget. And he pondered if he should leave.

The camp had to move, for that was what the armies did.

He saw her busied with her new sisters, folding and wrapping their tent, and she was neither shy nor weak in doing her part of the work. She looked upon him with small eyes, likely her sleep had not been well rested, but there was no rage or hate in them, just warmth and sadness.

They formed a pitiable little track, the end of the tail that followed the fighting forces. The new camp was built while the sun was setting, and although he had wished to ask her for a walk again, he saw she was rather tired and exhausted from the day's task and the unsteady night before, so he did not approach her after the last praise when she turned to lay down with her sisters. Let her be rested for my tale he thought, it might take some more strength from her to stomach it.

For strength she showed indeed, in a manner that astonished him. She was not afraid to grab heavy loads, or carry things; bedding the dead in their last cushions had hardened her muscles and condition, and he had wondered if it was too hard work for her, but he realized she was no longer the fragile, breakable girl he knew long ago. At least not from the outside, for he knew best what could be hidden under a strong frame.

He woke in the earliest of dawn, when the sun was no more but a stripe on the horizon and the stars were crowding the sky. He heard some rustling noise, moving away from where he laid. That was unusual. He had seen more than once how sisters had sneaked out of the tent to meet with a septon or a brother in the dark. He did not bother, the morality of the faith often ended with the day of light, he knew. He had seen the High Septon more frequently in a brothel than in court.

Only this time was an odd time to leave, they should be returning, whoever they were. So he lay awake and soon the steps returned, coming from behind his canvas, stopping in front of him. He knew it was her just from the way she placed her feet.

They walked in the direction of the rising sun and birds sang in every tree and bush. They were surrounded by a cloud of chitter, a choral made of lilting, whistling and warbling, cheering for a new day.

The sun blinded their view, it beamed in their faces and her auburn braid gleamed in the light. A light breeze blew all loose hair from her face. They walked and did not speak, but she walked close to him.

"I hope you feel better", he said after a long while, once the birds were silent. She gave him a small smile, her face looked tired, but she nodded nonetheless.

"I need to tell you about… " he said with a steady voice, turning towards her to make sure he had her attention. "I met someone that you think dead, and you should know your sister "

His sentence did not finish, for they were distracted by the huge dark shadow crossing the sky over their heads. He stared into the sky, still coping that he had actually seen a dragon with his very own eyes. A living dragon. Fire made flesh. His heart rushed.

Her mouth stood wide open in amazement. She looked like an astonished child to him.

He came back to his tale. When he spoke the words that changed her world she paled even further. He told her everything he remembered, but he left out the flaming sword, and ended with her leaving him wounded under a tree.

Tears had streamed down her face and when he was finished, she stepped forward and hugged him. Her arms were on his side and back and she pressed herself against his chest with all her strength. He held his breath and his whole body tickled. The crown of her head was right above his bursting heart. He felt her chest expanding.

She let go and her cheeks were still glistening with wetness, but she beamed with joy, more radiant than the sun to him.

When they walked back, she was as light-footed as a doe. She was happy, he saw it, and it made him feel good.


	22. Chapter 22

He could not stand it, sight or smell. His intestines roared and he bent quickly to empty his stomach in a bush. What a coward have you become he thought grimly, feeling another mouthful rising. It smelled disgusting. He wiped his face and spat on the floor.

She had left his side and was among the smouldering remnants. He wanted to help her doing whatever it was she did there, but another burning load of bile formed in his throat.

Most were charred, blackened skin falling of their bones. Others were covered in red blisters that seemed to grow even after their hearts had stopped.

She ran around, frantically, searching for survivors. Those that still lived were unconscious, tortured on their way to the Stranger's arms. Painful moans, whimpers and cries were the only sounds they made.

He finally found enough courage to walk on the burnt ground. She was sitting with a dead sister's head on her lap, slowly rocking back and forth humming the Mother's hymn of mercy. How can she still sing to the gods he wondered.

He wanted to leave this place as quickly as possible, but she would not follow if he did. So he grabbed a melted thing that could replace a shovel and started digging.

She treated what was left of them and cried when she kissed their forehead.

The sky was blue and the sun warmed every fresh green leave.

They put the dead in one hole and those she thought her sisters in another. Some had red stains where the heart was. He felt cold suddenly, besides his sweat soaked clothes. When he turned around she stood motionless behind him, tall and slender as a birch, covered in grey flakes of ash, her face all white.

"You need to drink. Me as well" She did not move.

He left to find the small stream, that was somewhere near them. He followed tracks of running, finding weeds next to the water trampled in haste.

They tried to fetch it for the burnt he realized. The beast breathed on them twice, burning those that ran back to help, for the tracks left in the same direction.

She would have run. She would have burnt, too. He shivered.

It felt good to wash his face and quench his thirst.

When he came back for her, she stood before the grave, silent and straight, but her hands gestured and her fingers fluttered in the air. Never had he paid attention to the sisters' system to communicate, but now he wished he understood her words.

"Come, you need to drink. It was a long day"

She followed him with stumbling steps, exhaustion hitting her. He offered his arm, and she took it vacantly. And so they stumbled and hobbled together, slowly but steadily.

He had woken many times that night, flames lightening his dreams. She was under the next tree, on a bed of soft moss, sleeping like a rock. He remembered how she drank, knelling in dirt with her braid dipping in the water. She was no longer a chirping lady, as he was no longer a warrior, but who they were he was unsure.

He had searched for un-burnt items in the ashes and she had been at the graves. He hoped they had not buried any useful knifes, hidden in ragged robes. There was no food, no cloaks, no weapons.

He fetched her from the fresh hills before the sun stood high.

"I looked for helpful things, but there is nothing left. I thought I saw something thin the other day." He glanced at her from behind his hanging hair "Something with a pointy end."

Her posture stiffened just so slightly before she took something from under her cloak. She held a deformed metal thing out to him, no longer then the width of her spread fingers. It looked like fall-out from a forge. He took it from her hand; it was sharp edged all around.

He did not need to see her hands to know one was cut. He shut his eyes. The little bird had given the gift of mercy. She knew where the heart was.

Now this innocence was gone as well.

Gently he turned her palms towards him and saw the long red stripes in her right hand.


	23. Chapter 23

She shook her head when he asked where she wanted to go, pointing towards the fighting forces. So he went with her, in the direction where they did not know when they would meet mankind.

They walked beneath the stream following the current. She seemed weak, but she didn't stop to walk. He twisted his mind about what to eat and where to find it.

When they settled during sunset all they had eaten were some tasty but non-satiating herbs. She knelt, and he watched her pray. Sneering laughter emerged from his throat "You still pray to the gods, girl, after all you've seen?" She tensed. He could not stop himself." If there are gods, they kill their own most loyal servants!" She stood motionless, but her eyes were doubtful and defiant, full of anger and grief, mercy and despair. "Tell me girl, who made a dragon if not the gods?"

She turned and did not look at him for the rest of daylight. They camped on separate spots of deep soft moss.

That night he did not find sleep. He stared at the stars above and smelled the stains of death upon him. He felt like his skin was crawling with the charred ashes of burnt people and he was thirsty. He stole away from the sleeping shadow towards the dark water. It was fresh and chilling and he dunked his head into it. He washed all remaining ash from his hair.

He pondered what would be; he had no food, no shelter, no weapons to defend her. Could I break every single neck if we were attacked he thought? They had not eaten for two days, and he started to worry for her condition, she was so fragile.

He smelled the stink of his clothes stronger than before. When he approached the little clearing between the bushes again, he watched her toss and turn. She was half tangled in her cloak and fighting against it. He heard her mumbling. She moaned painfully. He hoped she would calm down soon.

But she didn't, and after he had watched her panicking breathing for a moment he stretched out his hand and -not ungentle- shook her shoulder. "Wake up" he said two times before she opened her eyes. Her body was filled with tension, confusion, shock and pain. He kept his hand on her shoulder just an instant longer, while she starred at him with big eyes in the night.

Her features softened and relaxed when she recollected where she was. She smiles for not being in her dream he thought, when she winced a tiny bit. Her hand came up, to shield her face and further up into his hanging strands of hair. She touched some and felt the wetness that had dripped on her. Her fingers combed through the dark tangle, and his scalp tickled.

"Sleep on" he said calmly and saw her silhouette nod.

His stomach growled and he wished they had some food.


	24. Chapter 24

There was a clearing that was full of blooming greens. Many he did not know, but there were patches of plants he recognized to be safe to eat.

They plucked dandelions until their hands were covered in brown stains. He saw her in the distance, bending deep, picking tussocks of eatable weeds from the sun flooded meadow. Something gnawed on his intestines since he had mocked her. He had expected her to treat him with cold courtesy, but she behaved just as distantly familiar as before.

His attempt to build a rabbit trap was in strong need of improvement, he had no string and the sharp thing broke when he tried to cut a honeysuckle. "Bugger that", he muttered, "we can't even make a fire".

He found wild roots, twisted and turned and coated in dirt, but he ate one right there and then, with sand scrunching between his teeth.

They gathered a pile of herbs, young green leaves, small dark red tribes and tiny blossoms, tossed them and ate handfuls of it. Nibbling rabbits crossed his mind while daisies disappeared into her mouth. He presented her the bunch of washed knobby roots, and she clapped her hands in delight and grabbed one.

She is the heiress to Winterfell he thought, and her skirts are soaked in as much dirt as any common woman's. It shouldn't be like this. She should be dressed in pretty gowns, with everything to eat she wished nearby and a warm featherbed to sleep in. Her wolfish sister was fit for this, but she was not. He recognized the change, but he knew what she was born for, what she was perfect for. He thought of all the chirped lies she had delivered in King's Landing. Years in court had taught him to see and smell lies, whoever brought them forward.

She was not lying. She was honest and humbled.

"The Lady of Casterly Rock and the heiress of Winterfell, ", he said calmly "and she's excited about roots." She gulped and stopped and stared, but she did not see him, and he called himself a fool. She hugged her knees and finished eating.

Then she stood up and picked flowers in her skirt that served as a pouch.

He laid back in the fizzling silence of the living grassland and closed his eyes. Soon the sounds of waving weeds turned into the sound of stormy water on the island's shore. Elder Brother sat with him, calm and concentrated, and spoke. We can decide who we want to be. But we can't decide what we want our memories to be. They stay with us no matter where we go, a reminder of our dead self. If we neglect them they can throw us out of balance. We can only respect them and learn.

The sun had wandered when he woke up. He cursed himself for falling asleep, but then wondered why. He knew of no place they had to reach in time.

She sat nearby, binding flowers into wreaths. She noticed his stirring and raised her hand to wave at him quickly. He straightened up but said no word, the scenery was too peaceful to be true.

When she was finished, she stood up and gathered all her flowerwork.

In silent agreement he followed her to the stream it was a clear rush of glistening green and blue sparkles. She kneeled by the riverside, praying. He was itching to say something, but this time he resisted.

She prayed and then threw one wreath on the water, where it was taken by the current and slowly left their eyesight.

When she threw the 5th one he kneeled with her, but he did not pray. By number two-and-twenty he wondered how many more dead she would mourn.

The pile lessened further and she turned her head and looked surprised. He felt caught. Had he intruded her private ceremony? Then a sad smile spread over her face that warmed and wrenched his heart at the same time. She pointed her hand at the remaining wreaths and nodded encouragingly. He did not move. She handed him one with a wrinkled brow but he refused.

They kneeled on lush green tendrils; there was no mud for her to write in. So she drew big quick letters in the air, her resolute forefinger formed words _THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH FOR ME TAKE AS MANY AS YOU LIKE. _Her eyes rested on him, concerned and curious.

Slowly he took two tiny wreaths. "Thank you" he said in a low voice.

_AUTHOR'S NOTE:_

_Hey there, I hope all of you are fine, as am I. The peaceful time by procrastination can't be prolonged anymore, which is due to a kaleidoscope of events. That's life. Good news is: the story is finished on my heart drive, but so far unedited. Be patient padawan, for editing is an art of its own.  
_

_Did you see that Freudian slip in "hard drive"? I like it, I'll leave it :-)  
_


	25. Chapter 25

The stream widened, by now one might call it a river. They were walking on remnants of a trail, overgrown and out of use but nonetheless a sign of mankind. If he hadn't been so hungry it had made him nervous, but hunger ate every emotion.

It had been long since the dragon burnt the camp, and all they had eaten were leaves and roots. Greens were not filling, which is why he had avoided them for all the years he was fed from castle kitchens. Not only were they hungry, but they smelled like damp dogs. They had found no shelter to hide from the rainstorm two days ago, and the sun hadn't come out since then.

"I know where we are going." She looked up. He hadn't spoken for a day. "You want to find your sister, don't you?" She stopped. "That girl is wild, she might no longer live. We don't know where she went." He spat on the ground. "She's a wolf bitch that one" Her mouth stood open and a small noise filled the air. He felt something slowly running down his forehead and spilling over his nose, a white liquid with pungent smell.

Black tail feathers disappeared into the leaves above. He wanted to crack that bastard bird's neck, but then he heard an unknown noise, a snort. She pressed her lips together and chuckled. Then she giggled.

Little silver sparkles filled his ears and popped in his chest, flooding him with a warm tingling.

She had her hands cover her mouth, her eyes in an expression like she was shocked from her own behaviour.

"Bird shit, eh, you like that", he stated with a gruff.

It had been so long since he had heard her laugh, he couldn't even tell if ever so. Giggling was girlish, it was not for ladies or beaten beauties.

When he made way through the tangled weeds to wash his face he could hear her catch her breath again.

Right by the water were flat grown weeds and a collapsed tree. He kneeled to wash his face with water, soaking his collar. He drank. An instinct made him turn his head, like he had seen something unfamiliar by his side. The dark shadow was not moving.

Cautiously he stood up and approached it, ready to crush it if necessary.

The dark thing did not move and when he made three steps through the reed, he realized it was indeed lifeless. Before him laid an abandoned bundle.

It was darkened, the leather hard and brash. He grabbed it with two hands and underneath it was wet and foul and rotten.

Carefully he took it back to the tiny clearing and tore it open. He put his hand in and felt that it was filled with little things and stinking mud.

He gasped when his fingers closed around rocks. He pulled them up, and a roaring laughter emerged from his throat. In his hand he held two firestones.

He heard her rustling through the noisy weeds. Laughing was uncommon for both of them.

"Come here" he said loudly. He turned to her and showed his triumphant trove. "Look!"

They further found long devastated remnants of provision, mashed with unidentifiable things that had begun to compost in the bag. Leftover shreds of fabric, but then, within the smelly substances, he caught small solid things. He found one stag and three coppers.

But the biggest thing of all was a satchel, wrapped up and tightly knotted. The leather was spoiled, but inside the layers was a knife.

A humble knife with sharp steel and a simple wooden handle. It was no dragonbone dagger but never had a blade seemed more exquisite.

"Tonight, we shall have some meat roasted over fire" he declared, and was so deep in thoughts about where best to put some traps and which kind to make quickest, he missed the happy thankful look she gave him.

He had set up four traps. All they had to do was waiting. Hunger roared in him like an animal. They had already gathered a pile of dead branches, sharpened sticks to roast their prey on.

His stomach screamed in anticipation. They sat on the little clearing by the water, the remains of his unexpected find unmoved.

She had the knife and cut some loose hanging strings from her stained dress. He watched her carefully collecting them in one hand, tying the tiny ball and slipping it in her pocket.

"You keep it." He said when she handed it back. "You carry it. In case … I loose it." Their eyes locked. Both of them knew he would never lose this knife.

She nodded and took it.

After agonizing hours he allowed himself to look for prey. His finger shook just so slightly when he shoved away the lower leaves of a fat bush. He did not know what he would do if all the traps were empty. He held his breath until the angstful eyes of a brown rabbit starred at him.

He took it in his hands, carefully, it was too frozen in fear to even struggle. Its ears were flat, the nose trembling. He stroked the soft thing with his big hand, felt the little creature shivering. Then, almost gentle, its neck cracked.

He returned with two more squirrels. Before he skinned them he made sure to start the fire, he could no longer wait for real food.

He cut around the rabbit's neck, making sure to get his fingers under the pelts. He pulled it off, holding the now dark red creature in one hand. She observed him. He chuckled. "Have you never watched how to skin a beast?"

She came and kneeled besides him, taking one dead squirrel in her hands. She took the knife, cut a whole for her fingers and pulled the auburn fur of the meat. He gulped.

She just finished gutting the second squirrel when he spoke "Well, those sisters taught you more than prayers then. Good."

Three skinny animals were roasting and all he had to do was being patient for a little longer. His nose caught the first delicious smells in days, making his center growl. He could taste his sour breath. He tried to quench his hunger with some more water. When he splashed his face he realized how far his beard had grown. It made him lock even more gruesome, black hair covering half his face.

He took the blade and scratched the black harsh hair from his skin, while the odor intensified and made his mouth water.

They sat in silence, each devouring a squirrel. She turned a leg to crack its joint before pulling it off, later sucking on the bones and licking grease from her fingers. They shared the rabbit, but she let him have more than half.

The sun set slowly while the fire shrunk. He buried some roots in the hot ashes. They sat next to each other, leaning on the rotting tree trunk, facing the water. She touched his arm. In the flattened cold ashes she had written words for him.

"I was on an island." He told her. "The monks had taken me in, healed me, they offered I could stay. I had nowhere else to go." Something about that thought made him feel unwell. What else should he tell her? How he had eaten his own horse? How they had kept the corpses frozen? "It was 30 men and some animals. It stunk." She still looked interested despite his dull tale. "There was a nasty yellow cat that hissed whenever I came near her. I called her Cersei."

The feeling of some food filling his belly made him sleepy.

Darkness enclosed them despite the glow still emerging from the fire. He sensed her fingers on his palm _VOWS?_ she asked him. "No" his voice was low, the crickets' sound fading into the burping croak of frogs. "Gods…" he mumbled.

Moonlight fell on the rippling surface of the river. Clouds rushed over the crescent and close to them an owl cried.

"Gods", he said again followed by a voiceless laugh. "How many have you seen that died? How many of those were slain by mankind? How many had starved to death? The gods don't stretch out their hands to give new crops if the seeds burnt. They don't bring health to dying children. They don't walk among us bringing mercy to the poor. The only thing they bring is death."

The owl cried again.

"There are no gods. Only mankind" She did not move. Then he felt her fingers on his skin. _I KNOW._

He starred at the streaming darkness before them. He felt exhaustion overcoming him, now that his belly was full. When he turned his head, he realized she had fallen asleep, sunk down with her lips slightly parted. Her hand still laid on his.

Very slowly he reached over with his free arm and discreetly pulled her cloak further to cover her upper body. Her head dropped to his upper arm.

He looked at her pale skin in the scarce light. "I never should have yelled at you" he whispered.


	26. Chapter 26

They progressed slowly, but better fed. He found duck potatoes in the shallow waters and they feasted on it for days. She weaved long reed leaves together and they carried as many as possible with them when they left the spot.

The river united with another, and where before had only been an overgrown trail; there were now more and more signs of the living. Abandoned fields. Collapsed huts. He looked in each of those for something useful, anxious what they might find inside, but there was nothing left to be taken.

Her sleep was still unsteady, full of noise and motion. He only woke her if she seemed to panic, for otherwise she might not sleep at all. One night he woke since something had stroked his wrist. She had rolled on the floor, tangled in her cloak and her hand had landed on his outstretched arm. It only lasted for some moments before she turned away again.

They made their way and he was certain they would not be spared from mankind forever. One day, when the sun set, she grabbed his arm. The air smelled from burnt wood.

He found no sleep that night.

The next day they approached the little ruinous hut that he had found just hidden from their sight.

A small figure dressed in rugs was busying around, struggling with a goat to go her way.

"Give me the coins." He said "At least a copper. Maybe they have some bread or cheese that we can buy." She nodded and then turned around. Just when she turned back he realized she had the money hidden in her dress and when she gave the three small coins in his palm they seemed hot on his skin.

He approached the little hut, but on first sight the woman yelled and fled into the housing. "I mean no harm" he yelled when she blocked the door "Do you sell some bread or cheese" he bellowed, while knocking on it.

"I will pay you". "Nobody will get my boys!" she screamed and he pondered for an instant before something hard hit his head. It did not make him loose his senses, but he dropped to his knee from the immediate impact. That was a well thrown log.

He rubbed his scalp and the woman screamed again inside before he felt hands on his shoulders, gently pulling off the hood to see his head.

"Get off" he said and pushed her behind his back, carefully glaring at the opening in the wall "Before she throws something at you, too"

She backed away but looked worried.

"We don't want your sons, wench" he yelled, angered by the thudding bump on the side of his head.

"Nobody will take my sons from me" the woman screamed in a shrill voice, her head sticking out of the opening, while she was throwing logs.

The woman did not stop and yelled and wailed and babbled on and somewhere in his throbbing head the thought occurred that she had lost her mind. He looked around, and spied something that gave roots to his idea. Next to a collapsed ruin there were hills, not fresh, sunken in earth, but he knew the shape and looks too well to not see what they were.

"You have no sons, have you wench" he bellowed, the pain in his head slowly ebbing away. "They're dead."

And the woman screamed like a harpy about her sons coming home and fighting him, and that he would not get them.

They met a man on the road.

While Sandor Clegane's leg hurt after a long walk and a crutch gave him comfort, this man would hardly make one step without his crutches.

The left leg was cut right below the joint, and loose threads hang from his cut shorts. Next to him slouched a mule, laden with bags and bundles.

"A man of the faith, blessed shall I be" he exclaimed when he saw them "Forgive that I don't kneel before you septon, I have some trouble getting up again."

"No need for that. I am just a novice" the big man grumbled.

"So what shall I call you?" "Call me Sandor." He turned to the slender woman "and this is…" he stopped. He could not say her name.

She raised her hand and drew something in the air. He watched with frowning eyebrows while the invalid man turned to him and said "I can't read."

"Alayne" he said "her name is Alayne."

"Sister Alayne", the man bowed his head "It is an honour to meet you. Many of my brothers had their last kisses from your sisters' lips."

He chuckled "Don't think bad of me for that. Are you heading to the market day as well?"

His name was Hink, and he had been born a blacksmith's son before he became a stableboy and the tides of war had swept him and his four brothers up and out in the sea of devastation. He had ended a hedge knight's squire but he had lost his leg in the same battle that had killed his ser.

When he had hobbled back to his village, all he had known lay in ashes, no word and sign of any person he ever held dear.

"What shall I say? I met some folk from other farms… At least I am alive, and the gods gave me this fellow. Just about two weeks ago he stood next to where I woke up, and we became good friends since then."

Hink said to reach the town he'd need two more days, but they would be quicker off without him. He slowed them down, but his chattering company was an addition to their shared silence. Hink talked and talked about things he had seen or heard. Sometimes he made her smile, and one time he made her giggle, when he described his youngest brother sticking his head into a soup pot and being stuck.

When the sun broke through and warmed their bodies, Sandor pulled back his hood and was prepared to meet the stare of their companion. All he received was a surprised sad smile.

"You were touched by war more than once. Haven't all of us that walk this day…" Hink said and turned his face, so the sun would caress his skin.

After the long winter on the iced isle, he often wondered if it were indeed the warriors that were brave, going out to fight, being fed by a lord, considering it an honor to die in service; or if it was the smallfolk that faced the odds of weather, poverty and liege lords, who tried to live no matter what.

Sandor set out the traps and Hink shared some of the roots he had to trade.

"We're only about a dozen and I'm not much help in the field as you can imagine. So I stumble to the market, I like to speak with people. Some say I can be quite convincing…"

"I never would have guessed" snarled Sandor but in his voice was no harm.

When they had shared their meal, Alayne – he had to remember that name – excused herself.

"She's a lucky woman. Nobody would touch a silent sister. It's a curse to touch the Stranger's wives."

Hink took a crunchy bite from his root and Sandor wanted to crunch his hand for thinking of anybody touching her. The fucking Imp…

"Don't you know the saying: All Silent Sisters are married to the Stranger?"

Silence lingered between them, filled with the sounds of crackling fire, chortling water and chirping crickets.

"You know my girl… she was not dead when I returned. She was alive. We wanted to rebuild a house and … one day riders came and took her… I begged for their mercy, but they tossed me a sword, saying I could fight for their mercy… I couldn't fight three men. I was on the ground in an instant… I saw what they did to her…. They made me watch… and then they killed her…

Brother, she is in a good place now, isn't she? She went straight to the heavens. She's happy now" he only whispered, his eyes switching from the dancing flames to the novice next to him.

Sandor grunted and scratched his head.

"She has a good life now, brother, hasn't she? A happy life for all eternity…. " his tone became urgent and Sandor heard Elder Brother's voice in his head. Faith can comfort us in our darkest moments it gives direction, purpose and peace. He had never considered faith to be a source of comfort for he had lost it so long ago.

Hink still stared at him, desperate for assurance, his terrible tale revived before his eyes, making him shake and shutter, breathing with an open mouth.

That was the moment when she came back. He wasn't sure if she had indeed heard the poor man's tale, but she stepped forward and touched his shoulder and gave him the saddest smile Sandor had ever seen.

And then Hink crouched and crumbled and cried, and she saw up to Sandor, her eyes full of pain, her face suffering and Sandor cleared his throat.

"For when you die you will be welcomed by the Stranger, who brings you to the Mother and the Maiden. In their arms you will spend eternity protected from all harm and evil" he recited hoarsely, his eyes locked with hers and she nodded sadly.


	27. Chapter 27

The sun had just risen; orange light filled the air, illuminating morning fog and turning dew drops into sparkling crystals. Birds were singing an uncoordinated chorus of whistling, peeping, and lilting that tinkled in the ears. They made their way just slowly sloping, when it finally emerged before their eyes.

"What is the name of this?" Sandor Clegane asked their hobbling guide.

"This city is New Harroway" Hink said. "The old one was flooded by the waters and sacked by war. There was nothing left to rebuild."

To Sandor this was not a city, for he had seen Lannisport, Casterly Rock and King's Landing. But Hink might never have been to a bigger town.

The wall around was thick. Gates formed from tree trunks revealed access, but just some houses stood before they had to cross a river over a bridge that was wide and built from wood.

First Sandor Clegane noticed that every building was under construction or new. Not restored, but newly build, with fresh roofs and drying walls.

"They are working on a canal on the other side, so that the town will be surrounded not only by a wall, but also streaming water." Hink told them and led them into a dark way.

Space was already crammed, and once all houses would be finished, there would be no sunlight reaching to the bottom of the narrow alleys.

Sansa had taken to lead the mule, to let Hink navigate his one leg and two crutches through the meandering puddles of piss and mud.

Hink limbed in front, Sansa holding the burdened beast, and Sandor following behind, feeling the well-known stares of people on him. It's just the height, he assured himself, they cannot see my face.

Hink led them to an open place that was crowded with people. A noisy cloud hung over it, there were men bargaining, market criers barking, women praising their goods, and a cacophony of cries of livestock.

Sandor was struck by the stench. He had almost forgotten how much mankind stunk. He also might have been deafened by the noise for an instant, but he was not blind.

Women sold from small sacks, the offered goats were meager, and the atmosphere was overall tensed. Marketeers feared to be robbed of what they brought and customers were anxious to be diddled or pickpocketed. He saw dozens of knives hanging from hips, being ready if needed.

Sansa did not seem to notice, her face was filled with interest and delight about all the goods and people. She loves people he thought, and people would have loved her.

Hink settled in a corner, almost in the shadows of a small lane filled with crap.

"It's been my place" he said shrugging his shoulders. "I wish I had a better one for the beast to not stand in shit" he said, petting the mule's forehead.

Sansa looked at him, the mule's head between them. She turned for Sandor and started writing in his palm. "She says the mule's name is Baltasar." Hink laughed, but Sandor looked at the enduring beast.

They prolonged their time by sharing a last meal of raw roots.

"Where will you go from here on?" Hink asked. "I don't think New Harroway has a convent yet."

Sandor looked to Sansa, and she nodded approvingly.

"We are looking for her sister." He said "She got lost in the wars. Her name is... ", he looked to Sansa once more "Arya"

"I wish you all the luck in the world, sister Alayne." Hink said and a glimmer of pain over lost brothers hushed over his face "May the gods help you to find your sister safe and sound."

Sansa laid her hand over her heart and bowed "If your sister is half as beautiful as you, I shall not oversee her when our paths cross." Sandor did not like the smile and look Hink gave her.

"Arya is different" he remarked, a little bit more harsh than necessary "she has brown hair and a long face…from what I understand…"

When they departed, Sansa hugged the mule and pressed a kiss on its nostril where the fur faded and the bare soft skin began.

"Where do we go now?" he asked her, and they went into the haggling swarm.

They strolled through stands, looking for everything and nothing. The prices were extraordinary, the variety was not. No foreign traders had found their way to this market; it was full of roots and vegetables of all sorts, old women with herb bundles and occasionally a sack of early grain.

He would have asked where they were heading, but strongly suspected she hadn't something particular in mind. Finding her sister would be like finding a needle in the haystock.

He saw a guarded palanquin passing by and asked a man for the noble's name, but had never heard of it before, nor had he seen that sigil. One silver-haired child had been victorious in the end and installed their vassals on vacant fertile lands. Sandor had heard the tale of the last trouts. An uncle tried to save his nephew from decapitation, taking more than half a dozen men with them before they were disemboweled. He swore to himself that he would only tell her if she asked.

He didn't like the way people looked. At him, suspicious of his shadowed face, intimidated by his height, or at her for even while she was clearly recognizable as a sworn sister, she did not wear a habit shawl, and her auburn hair and general appearance attracted many eyes. Her thick braid swung with every step she took, and heads followed her when she passed.

Suddenly some people ran through the crowd, pushing folk aside, running for their lives, closely followed by enraged men swinging clubs and knifes and – Sandor's chest tightened- a running horse, ridden by someone clad in colours, yielding a sword, screaming profanities. Instinctively he retreated from the mess, but she stood frozen in terror, her eyes wide in shock.

He grabbed her wrist and yanked her of the path when something bumped into him, wrestling his way by him. He was slower than he used to be; otherwise he would have turned enough to not get run in again. A club was swung against him, and he grabbed it and threw it away, the owner still clutching the other end in desperation.

Something hit his bad leg, hard and poignant, and he grumped, and his leg gave in under him.

When he shrunk to the ground he realized another club hitting him, but the throbbing pain in his leg had already taken over his head.

He realized something speeding by and one set of horselegs stopping, words were exchanged over his head.

His ears finally gave in to distinguishing sound from words. "Strong man." a voice said, and Sandor chuckled just a tiny bit, for it made his head pain. Strong indeed, but hadn't they seen his crutch?

The rider climbed off his horse and Sandor felt a hand grabbing for his hood and he knew he had no chance.

He lowered his gaze and heard people gasp in disgust, shock and horror. The rider mumbled "Oh Seven in Heaven…" and when Sandor looked up, he realized the man was a warrior's son.

"I am sorry you got run over, brother" the man said and helped him stand up again. Sandor gnarled, but kept his head low and nodded. "You are a very strong man. Did you ever think about joining our forces to defend the faith not only in words? We would be blessed to have you with us." Sandor hobbled for his fallen crutch, emphasizing his leg that was almost lame from pain that moment.

"Oh...what a misfortune." the man said, rather disappointed by the realization, but immediately distracted by another rider. Sandor bowed his head and slowly turned when he heard it, spoken in a low voice, almost whispered and tinted with fear and full of insidious malice.

"Hound"

Sandor froze. He gulped. He had no chance.

The wave of whispers grew behind his back when they bound his wrists.

"Saltpans…butcher…monster…demon…"

He spied for the tall woman with the auburn braid, but his eyes could not find her. Don't draw attention to her he told himself, resisting the urge to turn his head and yell her name. She will survive. She has survived so far. Nobody will touch a silent sister.

They made him walk without his crutch and his leg pained him terribly, still throbbing from the blow before.

She adapted to change before, that's her talent, she will find her sister and they will return to the castle in the snow and she will be fine he told himself over and over again.

But when they threw him in a cell, a cold and stony hole with straw on the floor, he punched the wall until his knuckles bled.

_This is the end of this act, there are two more acts to come and things will get... well, stay with me if you want to know. Those two acts are quite well-behaving when it comes to being edited, the last one is already almost finished, so far we are talking about another 15k words._

_None of that, or this chapter, would still be existing if not for my awesome friend. My computer crashed completely about a week ago, and OF COURSE I had no external security copies. My friend the geek-mom took a whole day to try to bring things back from the data nirvana, and urged a friend of hers who had never met me to perform some complicated rescue stuff for me for free. It took him a day of work. Let's all appreciate these people's good deeds and do the same for others if we can. _


	28. Chapter 28

After two days of hardly anything to drink and no food his mouth watered even from the smell of an obviously burnt stew.

"Hound" one the warrior's son called out, hitting the bowl with a spoon, like when calling in the chickens for corn.

"You would like to eat, wouldn't you" he said and held the still steaming bowl up before his head. "Let's see…"

"Rape is a sin." He spooned some of the food to the floor, the droplet sprinkling his boots.

"Theft is a sin." More food fell to the floor.

"Murder is a sin." About half the bowl was gone.

The guard looked at him and smiled…."I forgot something" he said with a sneaky smile.

"Being ugly is an insult to the eye. Your face scares every righteous man." With a twist of his wrist he emptied everything.

Sandor didn't even bother to raise his eyebrows. Leg or not, the only thing giving the guards the balls to talk like that were the bars between them.

Later the rats would come and feed from the food.

Somebody brought him a waterskin. He drank like he had just crossed the Dornish waste.

The guards grew tired of the spoon game after some days. Sandor knew they had a new idea when he heard the joyful call.

"You see, I don't want to waste the food anymore…So here you have it" one said and spit a mouthful in the bowl. He stirred it with the spoon and put it close enough to the bars for Sandor to take it.

Two more days he resisted before eating while the guards' laughter echoed from the walls. Coins were exchanged over lost and won bets.

Now and then a septon came and wanted him to confess his sins. He never said a word.

He had talked to one and only one septon once about his sins, and that would be the end of it.

She was everywhere in his dreams full of unspeakable thoughts that he tried to ban from his head during the day. She would be fine. She would find her sister. Nobody would touch a silent sister.

The last chance he had ever had to redeem himself was gone. He had failed her.

He lost the count of time. There was no sun, no other indication of the past but the growing beard on half his face.

When they came for him after many days, he braced himself for pain. There is only one thing you can do for her he thought. Never say her name nobody knows she's still alive.

His eyeballs burnt when they dragged him into the sun, splashing him all over with buckets of cold water.

"Don't be shy, Hound" one man bellowed above his chanting comrades "We'll make you pretty for the trial at court."


	29. Chapter 29

When he was brought before Daenerys Targaryen, they pulled back his hood and the crowd gasped. He could feel their stares piercing into his skin, and straightened up to ignore them from all sides.

Moments earlier the merchant had shaken and trembled when he spoke before the Dragon Queen. He had described how a giant rider had terrorized their town, burned down their crops, murdered men and raped his daughters. In the end he had been removed from the hall, a shivering, sobbing, broken man. Before him others had told of more horrible crimes that were committed by the monster with the hound helmet.

"So I understand you are the one they call the Butcher of Saltpans" the tiny framed women said with a voice that was bigger than her frame.

He saw somebody whispering in her ear from behind and recognized Barristan Selmy.

"You are the Hound". She stated in a clear voice. "Ser Sandor Clegane, former member of the incest-king's guard."

It takes some nerves from a Targaryen to call Joffrey Baratheon the incest king he thought.

"You did hear the accusations, Ser Sandor. Answer."

"It was not me, your Grace", he said "and I am no Ser."

"The smallfolk swears they saw you riding."

"They might have seen a rider, but not me. I took a wound and almost died, and lost my helm and sword."

She looked at him with stern eyes. "Cover his face" she ordered "and bring back the merchant."

The man was visibly shaking stepping forward, kneading his hat in his hands, his pale face covered in cold sweat and smeared tears.

"Merchant did the man who raped your daughters wear a helmet?" she asked calmly but with disgust in her voice.

"No my queen" the man stuttered.

"Did you see his face?"

"Yes your Grace. He was a disfigured demon. He made them kiss him and enjoyed the horror his face gave the girls."

"What did he look like?"

"The face was pure evil, sent from the seven hells. No man could look like that."

"Can you describe his face?" the queen asked patiently.

The man sobbed "He had scars across his face and no nose, only a gaping hole."

Daenerys Targaryen waved her hand and Sandor Clegane was brought back, the hood yanked from his head.

"This man is indeed disfigured" she stated calmly "But he clearly has a nose."

Whispers waved through the hall, news told to the next who had seen the same.

"I am sorry for your daughters." The queen said before she spoke even louder to be heard by everybody "I want to see the Butcher of Saltpans trialed as well. But it was not this man

who did it."

"One more thing" she said, her voice filled with frost "How come you watched and you did survive?" the merchant paled, all blood draining from his face. His lips trembled, as did her nostrils when she shifted on her bench. "Did you say a word?" the man cried out "Any word?" he collapsed to the floor, a picture of misery.

"Leave me and live." it sounded like a death sentence.

Some haggard man with a face like sour milk clad in a hair shirt and a rainbow cloak stepped up and whispered in the queen's ear. She nodded and he spoke for all to hear.

"Sandor Clegane has been found wearing a brother's cloak saying he was a novice. It is a sin to claim to service the seven in vain. He shall therefore answer our questions."

Sandor chuckled. "Do you trial everyone in a coloured cloak these days? Don't you find a harder foe to fight?" The man did not as much as blink.

"State the Seven's virtues, their sanctuaries and their divine deeds…" and Sandor answered. About virtues and tales and wonders and names, he told them all and everything, until the

queen cut of the man's questions.

"…enough of this. He seems indeed in knowledge of the faith."

Sandor bowed.

"Ser Sandor, or brother Sandor, whatever you call yourself. You may not take your leave."

"From what I learned you were one of the most loyal servants to the Lannister family; you were the sworn shield of their son Joffrey, and served in his king's guard.

Your brother murdered my niece and nephew and my brother's wife as well. Why should I let you live?"

"I was Joffrey's dog, but I left the Lannisters and all court in the night of the Blackwater battle. Nobody would be more relieved to see my brother dead than me. I have no wish to see the Lannister family or their allies back in power."

"But how will I be sure of that? You vow is worth nothing, you broke it before. ", she looked into the crowd.

"Will anybody vouch for Sandor Clegane?" Absolute silence fell over the hall.

Then he heard steps behind him.


	30. Chapter 30

Daenerys Targaryen raised her eyebrows.

The big man seemed to shrink when a woman stepped next to him. He did not even turn his head. She stood tall and straight and unafraid.

With both hands she pulled back her shawl, and pushed the hood from her hair. Auburn locks tumbled down her shoulders.

The dragon queen looked irritated.

Barristan Selmy, who had retreated to the back rushed to her side and whispered in her ear. "Your Grace, I've seen her before. This is Sansa of house Stark, the daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Tully. She looks just like her mother."

"State your name", the queen said in a cold voice.

The woman bowed. And stood. And said no word.

"Are you Sansa, daughter of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, as my counselor suggests?" She spit the words in the air, icy, but filled with fire.

The woman nodded and bowed deeply.

All movement froze, breaths were held and for a moment all noise that filled the hall was the crackling of burning torches.

Daenerys Targaryen filled her lungs with air… Stark, she thought, a real Stark… How she had hated that name for all her life. Baratheons were dead, the Tullys extinguished, all Arryns passed, the line of Lannnister unheard of, and now there was a Stark just five steps away.

Flames of fury raged in her, making her cheeks redden and her mouth dry. "Speak.", she commanded, it sounded like a spear.

Sansa bowed again and gesticulated and Daenerys Targaryen's head did not turn when her counselor stepped close and spoke into her ear.

"She is a silent sister your Grace. She vowed not to speak." Brows over violet eyes frowned. Had all villains turned to serve this silly faith?

"Make sure she is what she says. All of it." Her voice was full of restrained anger.

Barristan Selmy cleared his throat "Lady Sansa, we need to assure that you are indeed who you claim to be. You will answer our questions." Sansa nodded.

Movement came into the static scenery. Barristan gave orders, the big man was dragged into the shadows, a wax tablet was given to her, and a servant stepped up, ready to read her words.

"No." the queen said, her eyes never leaving her center of attention, "Missandei."

The delicate girl with the dark hair hurried and took her place next to the Stark woman. She's tall, Daenerys thought, why are all the Northerners so tall?

Barristan Selmy began his questioning by asking about her ancestor's names, her house's history, the rooms in the Red Keep and explicit details of the then royal family. It took a long time, but no one left and no one moved.

"Get the godly men", the queen whispered after Barristan had run out of questions whose answers he could confirm.

The commander of the Warrior's Sons and a member of the counsel of the Most Devout inquisitioned her on the Faith, motherhouse customs and her vows. Daenerys was bored by these people, she didn't share their devotion but she had claimed the deities for her dynasty's traditions. Her mind wandered. The North would fight, if not for her then for that name.

Stark.

She could still fill the icy winds slicing in her skin when standing on that enormous Wall for the first time. She remembered the Lord Commander, a Stark's bastard. He had asked for a word before she would ride Drogon and let fire rain from the sky; before he would lead the army of mankind into the final battle.

Drops of sweat formed on the heated heads of the men that claimed to know the absolute truth about life and death and everything in between, but they kept questioning the woman who wrote her answers.

I granted his wish she thought. I gave my word. She had thought it would never happen '…I know they live, I can feel it…' he had said. She should have known, after the Wall had crumbled and fallen before her eyes, that there was no such thing as 'never'.

The queen swallowed when it was decreed that the woman was indeed who she claimed to be: Sansa Stark of Winterfell, a sworn silent sister.

I gave my word she thought, I gave my word to an honourable man. He had returned breathing but broken, unconscious but living. The forth raven in the south told her of his passing.

"They say you killed Joffrey Baratheon."

"_I did not, but I wish I had." _Missandei read and looked from her queen to the tall woman next to her.

"You wished him dead for not becoming his wife?" the dragon queen asked, her narrowed eyes twinkling dangerously.

"_I wished him dead for murdering my father, for holding me captive. For making the king's guard beat me and strip me of my clothes before the assembled court. I wished him dead for being a monster_." Missandei looked to her mistress who did not flinch for an instant. But she could hear her counselor grumble a phrase of insults.

"You married his uncle instead. Quite a monster from what I've heard. That makes you a Lannister in name."

"_Tyrion was a Lannister, but not a monster. We were married, but I never was his wife. I am no Lannister."_

"He is dead, that makes you his widow and gives you a claim to Casterly Rock."

"_I would never intend to claim anything that belonged to the Lannisters, your Grace."_

"What do you know about your siblings?" Daenerys Targaryen wetted her lips. This was going to be an answer of utmost interest.

"_My sister Arya had escaped King's Landing; she was last seen by Sandor Clegane years ago."_ There was the information she had dared not to exist, another Stark. She swallowed.

"_I do not know if she is still alive. My brother Jon is at the Wall with the Night's Watch. All others are dead."_ Did this girl really not know that the wall had fallen? Daenerys almost chuckled.

"Sansa Stark, I will let you live. I will let you return to the north. I will not re-install your family's lordship. I will not send you men. I will not come to your aid." She got up from her bench, finally standing straight.

"But I have met those Northmen; I have heard and seen their love for your kin. If they will fight for you, let them fight. But I don't trust you Sansa Stark. Would I not be right to turn my dragons to the north, when a woman who was born from Stark and Tully blood, who was betrothed to Joffrey and married to a Lannister, who has ties to claim the Vale, the Westerlands and the Riverlands gains a seat of power? Would I not be right to do so?" she froze in her pose and Sansa looked at her, straight in the eye, before starting to frantically write on her board

"_I would forsake any claim to the Vale, the Riverlands or the Westerlands. Please my queen, I beg you. All I want is to go home."_

Daenerys Targaryen swallowed. They will make her their Lady. There would be a Stark family emerging, if not from her womb then her sister's. She was so close to getting rid of them forever and eternally.

"_My queen, I promise with my life to never interfere with any of your interests. I will never cross the Neck again if you'll let me go."_

Tensed silence lay over the assembly all eyes were on the young queen, waiting for her decision.

"_My queen, let me swear and make my promise a pledge."_

"And how will you swear, Sansa Stark of Winterfell?"

Sansa looked around took breath and wrote. "_With Fire and Blood"_

The queen cocked her head to one side. "What will you do?" she asked and only people close to her could identify the irritation in her voice.

Sansa wrote and didn't look up for a moment. Then she bowed and waited for the queen's permission "Go on" she finally said, perplexed by the woman's determined attitude.

She made a note until Missandei called for a torch, paled under her dark hair, but calm. Sansa let the servant stand in front of her, directed the torch be held low. She pulled something from under her cloak and Daenerys saw a simply old knife.

Sansa held it in her left hand, putting the blade against the fingertips of her right hand and, with a swift motion, pulled it. Immediately there was blood dripping to the floor, Daenerys could see skin hanging from the fingers. Sansa pushed up her right sleeve and held her arm steady with the other hand

Sansa bowed, looked at her queen and then nodded to Missandei, who had to clear her throat before she started to read. When her high voice filled the hall, Sansa put her arm through the flame, her bleeding outstretched hand visible to everybody. Somewhere a hoarse voice bellowed something.

Daenerys watched the flames encasing the pale arm, she could see the fingers tremble and forming a fist and almost felt the skin reddening and breaking in blisters from the fire. She heard Missandei's voice from far away, reading about forsaking claims, eternal loyalty and a pledge for a person. The words reached her ears, but all she could hear were the flames licking the pale skin of a thin arm…

Missandei stopped and Sansa pulled back her arm, half of the forearm covered in dark and red, a distinctive smell filled the air. Charred skin could be seen even from afar and Daenerys' eyes wandered from the flame to the woman with the blue eyes that were wide and pained, who was biting her mouth shut not to wail out and to hold back the tears.

Daenerys nodded and the Sansa's knees gave in, somebody yelled and a dark shadow was moving but not reaching her before her head had fallen on the ground with a loud noise.

It was the man with the disfigured face. He held her in his arms and muttered words that were unhearable to her. But when he reached under her knees to lift her up she shook her head and so instead he helped her to stand up. He had one hand firm around her waist while the other was ready to catch her if she fell forward.

Sansa Stark held her arm by the elbow and bowed, sweat was glistening on her pale face, blood kept dripping from her fingers.

"Sansa Stark, take your leave" the queen said and dismissed her with a gesture.

Sandor could not believe what she had done. Slowly, utterly slowly he guided her towards the door. She hung in his arm like it meant her life. He felt her stumbling with each step, but she managed to leave the hall on her own feet.

Outside, on a stony floor, she fell forward and all he could do was hold her waist and her right hand by the wrist when she began to retch.

Sour vomit sprinkled his boots, and very slowly he gave in and let her sink to her knees. She convulsed again and again, kneeling on all fours and all the time he held her wrist and tried to keep her hair out of the way.


End file.
